Intercession
by LisaT
Summary: As disappointment drags Shelagh downwards, Patrick turns to the one person who might be able to help... **SPOILERS FOR S03E03 AND BEYOND, YOU'VE BEEN WARNED!** Ahem. Reviews would be amazing!
1. Chapter 1

_You know when stories pop into your head more or less fully formed? That's what happened here, partly as a result of a spoiler-y conversation with **On-the-right-road**. Repeat, **here be spoilers!** If you haven't seen **S03E03** or read one of the gazillion rumours floating around cyberspace, this may not be your best choice of fic. As ever, I hope people enjoy and I really, really would appreciate reviews/comments/pms of whatever nature. Bit nervous re characterisation also, as this is the first time I've done Patrick and Timothy. _

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><p><strong>INTERCESSION<strong>

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><p>'Thanks, Sister. I'll see you tomorrow!'<p>

'Indeed you will. Give my love to Shelagh and Timothy, will you?'

Patrick Turner paused at the door of Nonnatus's spacious clinical room and turned to look at Sister Julienne, a thought occurring to him. 'Why don't you give it to her yourself?'

She glanced up from the instruments she was cleaning and down again as quickly, but not before he caught the fleeting wistfulness that passed across her face. 'Oh, I couldn't. She must be very busy; I don't wish to intrude.'

'You wouldn't be.' He walked towards her, leaning against the table edge and thinking hard. 'In fact… Sister, _would_ you call on her? Today? This afternoon?'

The nun looked up a second time, a fine line appearing between her brows at his insistence. 'As part of my rounds, you mean? Why? Is something the matter? Is it the TB? Is she—'

'Yes and no,' he interrupted to stem the uncharacteristic deluge of questions, and cursed himself for an insensitive clot when she whitened, age-veined hands flying to grip her wooden cross. 'Damnation… I'm sorry. Didn't think how that sounded. Let me assure you: Shelagh remains free of any active disease.'

Sister Julienne did not look noticeably reassured, her knuckles still too visible around the gnarled wood of the cross. 'But?'

Patrick sighed, allowing his shoulders to slump. With anyone else he might have fudged things, judged that this was too personal, too intimate, but Sister Julienne was not just anyone. 'Did she tell you we've been trying—?'

She clasped her hands in delight, the years seeming to drop from her. 'A baby? How wonderful!'

'It's not,' he said gruffly. 'We—_she_—can't. Because of the TB.' The stranglehold was back at his throat, limiting his ability to communicate. 'Shelagh, she….' He couldn't go on as he thought of how his wife had been in the days since they'd discovered the true legacy of her bout with tuberculosis; how withdrawn she'd been, how she'd taken to once again following the canonical hours, how the shyly passionate girl he'd married had seemed to vanish almost overnight, and become a nun once more… Not that he could say _that_ to the woman who'd been his wife's superior in the religious life, midwife or no.

'She must be devastated,' Sister Julienne was saying softly, compassion permeating the last word and lifting it beyond mere platitude. 'Shelagh has always loved children, and she has a rare talent with them.'

He nodded dumbly, acknowledging the truth of this. He knew how his wife's gentle ways had penetrated the dark forests of Timothy's grief, he'd seen her magic at work with another child, the day the TB vans came.

'She's… I don't know how to help her, Sister.' A breath. 'I don't think I can. I, I _have_ a child, you see.'

Sister Julienne's gaze sharpened. 'Surely you don't think Shelagh resents you for that!'

'I wouldn't blame her if she did,' he said hoarsely. 'I know she loves Tim, but this… She said it was a dream she'd never dared to have before, and now… seeing my son must be like salt in an open wound.'

Sister Julienne's hand fell on his arm, a touch of gentleness that radiated warmth. 'Salt can heal,' she reminded him when he lifted his eyes to hers. 'It sears and burns, but ultimately it heals. So it will be for Shelagh, once she's stopped grieving for the children she cannot bear. Give her time, Doctor.'

'I am, I do… it's just—Sister, what if she thinks this is a punishment? For renouncing her vows?'

'Do _you_ think she does?'

'I don't know!' He ran both hands through his shock of thick black hair, aware that they were shaking. 'That's the trouble, I don't know! I'm too afraid to ask and when she seems to prefer spending night after night on her knees instead of in bed with me—' He choked himself off, afraid of what he might reveal. Afraid he had already said too much.

He watched as Sister Julienne returned to her instruments, her hands moving with a swift expertise born of years of practice. She was so quiet that Patrick wondered if she'd forgotten him, or worse, if she was angry.

She might very well be angry, he thought bitterly. Sister Julienne was a reserved woman, but her love for Shelagh ran too deep to be easily concealed. Certainly it had become all too plain to him.

'I'm sorry,' he blurted, suddenly feeling no older than Timothy. 'I—' He stopped when she raised a hand, grey eyes turning to steel.

'You have nothing to be sorry for,' she said fiercely. '_Nothing_. This is not a punishment from God, I will not hear that or anything like it from either you or your wife, Patrick Turner!' He blinked, stunned; he didn't think she'd addressed him by his Christian name before, even obliquely. 'I will go to Shelagh this afternoon,' she continued, returning to her customary calm. 'I cannot promise that I can help, but I will try.'

'That's all I'm asking.' He could say no more; instead, he surprised himself as much as he surprised Sister Julienne by leaning across and giving her a filial kiss on the cheek.

She reared back, her eyes wide and round, and despite everything Patrick managed to find a grin.

'Thanks. Just… _thanks_. I don't have faith in much, but I know that if anyone can help Shelagh, it's you.' He left then, unable to bear it a second longer, and wondered if the feeling surging within him was a prayer.

He dared to hope it was.

Prayers—even prayers from a faithless one such as he—were answered. He had proof of that every day.


	2. Chapter 2

It was the gentle double rap on the door that roused Shelagh, something in its rhythm tickling the back of her mind and bringing her to her feet almost before she was aware of it.

She frowned. What was it?

It came again, a _tap-tap_ that was as rapid as it was quiet, and she _knew_.

She pursed her lips to still their trembling and went to open the door; as expected, it was Sister Julienne and it took everything Shelagh had to stand back and say, 'Good afternoon, Sister. How can I help you?'

The older woman's gaze was far too knowing as she entered, shaking the fine spring rain from her coat. 'Tea would be lovely,' she said lightly, allowing Shelagh to take her damp coat. It was a familiar action between them, a small once-daily testimony of love.

'Would you like Nescafé instead?' Shelagh ventured, knowing (how well she knew) that to the nuns coffee was a luxury. Sister Julienne looked dubious, and Shelagh said, 'Please.' Suddenly it was important to do this. 'Please, Sister. Let me treat you.'

'Very well, but only if you will take a cup with me.'

Shelagh smiled a small smile and made her way into the kitchen, followed by the starchy rustle that had once accompanied her every movement, and began to prepare their drinks. Silence lay like a blanket, soft and comforting, disrupted only by the bubbling of the kettle and the chink of metal against china. Neither she nor Sister Julienne needed to speak; they communicated with their smiles and their eyes and as she reached for the milk Shelagh realised that this was the first true peace she'd known since _that_ _day_.

At last the coffee was ready, and she carried the tray with its delicate cups and saucers into the living room; Sister Julienne pulled a table over and Shelagh laid her burden down. Their movements were seamless, perfectly choreographed, relics of half a lifetime of living together.

'Sister,' Shelagh murmured, handing over the cup and saucer.

Sister Julienne smiled her thanks and took a sip. 'Ahhh.'

'It's cold.'

'Freezing.' Sister Julienne's eyes roved the small living room; with a shock, Shelagh realised that this was the first time the older woman had visited since her marriage. 'My dear, there's no fire.'

It was a gentle reproach, but Shelagh's cheeks still flamed.

'I hadn't realised how cold it was,' she defended. 'I'm wearing… _this_.' She plucked at the sweater that swamped her small frame; it was thick wool, one of Patrick's. She hadn't entirely spoke the truth; she _was_ cold with the soul-deep cold of despair that all the fires in the world could not banish.

'Even so.' Sister Julienne placed her cup aside and rose, crossing to lean behind Shelagh to the blanket that lay draped across the back of the ochre settee. 'Here,' she murmured, pulling the blanket up and off and wrapping it around Shelagh before Shelagh had even realised what she was doing.

'It's only a few months since you had TB,' the nun scolded as she sat next to Shelagh, skilled hands still settling the blanket into place. 'There's no point in taking risks.'

Shelagh's head fell forward. Just now it seemed impossible to believe that she was cured of TB; just now it was even harder to care. Not when TB had deprived her of something so precious…

'I'm not cured,' she said in muffled tones. 'I'm never going to be cured.'

She felt Sister Julienne take her hands in both of hers, their warmth bracing and embracing. 'Tell me.'

She still could not look up, could not bear to meet her former superior's eyes. 'I thought I could have it all. I was so sure… I could have everything I thought I'd renounced. Marriage. A home. A family. M—motherhood…'

'My dear, you _do_ have all those things.'

Shelagh shook her head, jerkily. 'No. I, I can't. The TB, it left scarring across the pelvic area.' The more she talked, the easier it came. 'The biopsy confirmed it. I'll, I'll only ever be a stepmother. I won't ever have children of my o—own—'

Sister Julienne pulled her close and Shelagh closed her eyes and tried to steady herself; Sister Julienne was there, sounding, feeling, even _smelling_ (carbolic soap, no less) of home. Not until she married Patrick had she known that a person could be home as much as a place; now she realised that Sister Julienne was home, just as Patrick and Timothy were. Her breath caught and she turned into the nun's habit, content to lie there like a child.

'You know, Sister Monica Joan and I have been speaking of fairy tales of late,' Sister Julienne said at last, apparently _à propos_ of nothing.

Shelagh said nothing; she knew if she waited she would understand.

'I find myself wondering about the stepmothers,' Julienne continued, and such was the spell woven by her soft voice that Shelagh did not flinch; she only listened, hoping for a pearl of wisdom that would make her present situation easier to bear. 'They must have been terribly troubled and disturbed women to treat their stepchildren as they did. We don't know that, as readers; we only know what the children see. Who knows what griefs they carried? Griefs like yours, perhaps. Shelagh, my very, very, dear girl, no matter how much it hurts you must—_must_—put it aside. You must not allow this to overcome all that you are and all you could be. Perhaps it is not God's will for you to have your own children, but clearly it is His will for you to be mother to Timothy, a child who needs you desperately. Don't let your sorrow for the children who may never be cloud your love for the child you have.'

'That's what I've been telling myself,' Shelagh whispered into the blue serge. 'I tell myself over and over, but Sister, it's so _hard_—'

'I know.' She felt Sister Julienne's arms tighten around her, pulling her even closer if that was possible. 'Even nuns are not immune to the special sorrow of childless women; the women who, in another life, might have chosen to be mothers, but circumstance and choice have dictated otherwise.' A sigh, one that ruffled through Shelagh's hair like a warm breeze. 'You will survive it. It will take time—time and work and God and love—but you _can_ endure it.'

'I'll just keep praying—'

To Shelagh's surprise, Sister Julienne pulled back and lifted her chin so that they were looking directly into each other's eyes.

'Shelagh, you're no longer a nun. Even when you were, there was a certain self-indulgence in too much praying; it can be used as a barrier between you and others, you remember how Sister Monica Joan remarked upon it. Our motto is work and pray; our work is itself a prayer, and work can heal. Oh, I'm not telling you to work as a midwife or a nurse. That would be too much just now. But work… you _must_.'

Shelagh had not wept, not in any real sense of the word. Now a broken sob burst from her.

'But what do I do if I can't nurse? Or be a midwife? I can't even bear to be in the clinic as a receptionist, Sister. All those mothers and babies—' She shook with the effort it took not to collapse altogether. 'I seem to be so _useless_!'

Sister Julienne's hands tightened on hers.

'No. You're a wife, a mother—yes, my dear, you are—a perfectly competent receptionist, an excellent nurse and midwife, a singer, a dearly beloved friend… you're all of these—' she paused abruptly and Shelagh sat up properly, alerted by the change in her former superior's tone.

'Sister?' she prompted when several moments had passed and Sister Julienne had said nothing more, although it was clear she was thinking hard.

The older woman shifted where she sat, her grasp on Shelagh's hands tightening. 'You know there's a new rector in the parish?'

Shelagh nodded. The young nurses occasionally came to visit, and Trixie had told her all about the aforesaid rector. Granted, her comments had been anything but complimentary, but Shelagh had once been Nonnatus's prize matchmaker and it seemed to her that Trixie had invested entirely too much effort in denouncing the unfortunate rector. 'Trixie told me.'

Sister Julienne's twinkling smile flashed. 'I'm sure she did. Well, it seems that the choirmaster has resigned in a fit of pique. He does not approve of the new rector, I gather; considers him too green, I believe.'

Shelagh nodded, wondering where this was going.

The nun leaned forward, her manner turning confidential. 'My dear, the choir is, by all accounts, abysmal. Jenny went to listen to them one night just after we moved, and all of Nonnatus was treated to an in-depth note-by-note dissection for the rest of the week. I believe Evangelina suggested that Jenny take them on herself if she felt that badly about it, but between that nice young man of hers and her promotion, Jenny is far too busy.' Sister Julienne's eyes sparkled and Shelagh managed a watery smile, although still much puzzled. Her brain didn't seem to be working at its usual speed these days.

'Sister, what are you saying?'

'I'm suggesting that you join the choir and turn it around. Your voice would lift them from the doldrums all by itself, and knocking the other choristers into shape would give you something to focus on. Besides, singing is good for the soul.'

'Sister Monica Joan says music soothes the savage breast.'

Sister Julienne nodded. 'Indeed. Although I understand she doesn't find Nurse Franklin's beloved Mr Presley quite so soothing.'

Shelagh gave a half-hearted giggle. 'She prefers Bach.'

'There was quite a battle royal over it one evening,' Sister Julienne agreed. 'Only very quick action by Cynthia saved the record player from destruction, or so I've been told.' She paused, her gaze keen. 'Well? Would it help, do you think?'

'Me, lead the choir?' Shelagh turned the idea over and over in her mind. 'It—it'd be better than being at the clinic,' she admitted, her voice less steady than she would have liked. 'It'd be good to have something else to think about, something that isn't here, or anything to do babies or children… '

'Shall I speak to the rector for you?' Sister Julienne suggested. 'He will probably want a reference of sorts, which naturally I will provide.'

'Thank you, Sister.' Shelagh had to blink back a renewed film of tears. 'You've always been so good to me.'

Sister Julienne's eyes were luminous.

'You were my sister and now… Now, you are my very, very dear friend. It is not goodness to do a small favour for a friend, and you ask so little. So. You're going to do this?'

Shelagh took a deep breath and exhaled it, feeling the air vibrate through her lungs. 'Yes. I don't know if I'll be any good, but… I'm, I'm going to try.'

'Good girl.' Sister Julienne's smile was a benediction. She picked up her cup and drained it. 'I must admit, that was very good coffee—but promise me you will not tell Evangelina I drank it, or she will lecture.'

'I won't,' Shelagh promised. The front opened and banged closed. 'Oh dear, that sounds like Timothy and I haven't got anything ready for him—' Anxiety and sadness were starting to close in on her again, and she had to lean forward in an attempt to ease her breathing. Ever since TB she'd tended towards breathlessness when emotional or anxious.

Sister Julienne rose. 'I'll take care of Timothy. In fact, why don't I take him back with me? It's only round the corner, I have no more calls and our new convent is so large Timothy can run riot as much as he likes. Doctor Turner said he'd pop by this evening in any case.'

'Only if he likes. Only if you're sure,' Shelagh said anxiously as she stood in her own turn.

The living room door burst open in a series of clatters and Timothy stumbled in, tripping up over his calipers. 'Mum, you'll never guess! I came top in Music, again!'

Shelagh managed a smile, grateful when Sister Julienne came to slip a supportive arm around her. Timothy noticed at once, his thin face turning anxious.

'Mum? Is everything OK?'

'Your mother is fine, she's just very tired,' Sister Julienne told him soothingly, and Shelagh allowed herself to lean a little more heavily on the older woman. 'I'm going to take her upstairs for a sleep, and then you and I shall return to Nonnatus House until your father's ready to come home. What do you think?'

Timothy's brow crunched in thought. 'Will Nitty Nora be there?'

'Timothy!' Shelagh expostulated, shocked out of exhaustion and sadness. Sister Julienne laughed.

'If you mean _Sister Winifred_'—Timothy went scarlet—'then yes, I'm sure she will be. As will Sister Monica Joan and Mrs B and Fred. If Sister Evangelina isn't back, he may even allow you to try the motorbike.'

Timothy's face glowed. 'Would he?'

'I don't see why not.' Shelagh felt Sister Julienne's arm tighten on her shoulders. 'Do you want to wait outside while I settle your mother? I'll only be a moment.'

She was as good as her word, ushering Shelagh up the stairs and into bed. Shelagh went willingly; she had so many things to think of that sleep would give a brief respite. Drowsily, she watched Sister Julienne as the nun covered her and pulled the curtains, remembering the last time the older woman had helped her to bed, the day TB was diagnosed. So much had happened since then; she, Shelagh, had transformed, but Sister Julienne remained as she had always been.

'Sleep now,' Sister Julienne murmured, leaning forward to give Shelagh a kiss on the forehead, her thumb tracing the spot of the kiss with a firm cross. 'Have courage. I will speak to the rector and prepare the way, ready for your decision.'

'Thank you.' Shelagh's eyelids were growing heavy and she was only dimly aware of Sister Julienne's soft exit; she was cocooned in love, suffused with it: Julienne's, Patrick's, Timothy's. Only now did she realise the barriers her devastation and grief had raised between herself and those she loved.

_Have courage_, Sister Julienne had said.

Shelagh rolled into Patrick's spot, as though to be close to him, and made a resolution. She would be brave; she'd do the choir, she'd work, she'd love her husband and son with every fibre of her being, she'd live life to the full, and endeavour to steel herself against the poison of regret and what-might-have-been.

_I wasn't near to death, I was near to life_, she'd told Sister Julienne that day at the sanatorium. _This _too was part of life, it was the very stuff of life.

_~Fin~_


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